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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22394287">Amnesty</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelladonnaWyck/pseuds/BelladonnaWyck'>BelladonnaWyck</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiast/pseuds/raiast'>raiast</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Fluff, Hannibal and Will on vacation, Lumpy Pancakes, Murder Wives, Post-Fall (Hannibal)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-01-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 08:53:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,095</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22394287</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelladonnaWyck/pseuds/BelladonnaWyck, https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiast/pseuds/raiast</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Margot Verger had never considered herself a morning person. Even so, she could still admit that the soft golden light filtering through their broad kitchen windows at the ungodly hour of 7 am <i>was</i> beautiful. Especially when it spilled across Alana’s smiling face.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alana Bloom/Margot Verger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Amnesty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliasIsMyWaifu/gifts">EliasIsMyWaifu</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This was a request from the lovely Ivan! We hope you enjoy, darling!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <h1>Amnesty</h1><p> </p><p>Margot Verger had never considered herself a morning person. Even so, she could still admit that the soft golden light filtering through their broad kitchen windows at the ungodly hour of 7 am<em> was </em> beautiful. Especially when it spilled across Alana’s smiling face, soaking into her skin blindingly enough to hide the shadows that grew by the day underneath her eyes; bright enough, even, to dispel the glint of uncertainty that Margot so often saw in her wife’s gaze.</p><p>“Mama, Mama! Look, we’re making pan-takes,” Morgan’s smile was so wide that Margot could see the little hollow space where one of his teeth had fallen out yesterday, money already traded with the <em>tooth fairy </em>in exchange for his bravery when his moms had helped him wiggle it the rest of the way out. </p><p>“P<em>ancakes</em>, darling? You know those are my favorite!” Margot welcomed the rambunctious little boy into her arms for a hug and a quick twirl, his laughter echoing off the walls and his feet kicking as she spun him in the air a few inches above the marbled tile of their <em>second </em>home in as many months.</p><p>There hadn’t been a time since Morgan was born that they’d stayed in a place for more than a few months. But something in Margot was <em>desperate </em>for this place to be the <em>one. </em> The <em>last </em>one. Something about the rolling expanse of the yard leading down to a small pond teeming with vibrant gold and yellow and orange fish, the way the sun looked like spilled oil paints as it sank behind the horizon and splashed the roof of the stable in crimson red and violet purple and soft, pastel pink. Something about the way they <em>existed </em>here, together, in a perfect state of harmony that brought a smile to her lips every morning and tucked her into bed at night, happy and <em>safe </em>and so far removed from their worries that she’d almost forgotten they existed. </p><p>And then the letter had come. It sat, now, in a lovely, cream-colored envelope made of heavy, expensive paper. Taunting them from the butcher block countertop of their kitchen island, even as Alana and Morgan danced around the room carefree, as though pancakes were a magical cure-all for what ailed them. </p><p>She didn’t want to open it. Didn’t want to know, with certainty, that it was time to give up this place. She knew Alana would insist, after today, that they leave. She’d already doubled their security detail and they’d slept in the safe room the night before, Morgan tucked between their bodies and slumbering peacefully like only a child could. </p><p>Margot willed away the dark, intrusive thoughts and refocused her attention on her family. She stepped around the island to the countertop where Morgan had climbed a stepstool, Alana hovering protectively behind him as he clutched a wire whisk in his tiny fist and awkwardly worked the batter. Alana was the epitome of patience, not correcting their son when he declared the mixture done, but deftly breaking up as many of the small lumps as she could when she transferred the batter to a large, glass measuring cup.</p><p>There was a brief period of shuffling around as Alana moved the stepstool further down the counter to where the griddle was preheating. Margot dipped behind her son on the way to the fridge. “Should we have some eggs too, buddy?” She grinned at his enthusiastic agreement. “Careful of the pan!”</p><p>She retrieved the carton of eggs from the fridge, as well as maple syrup and grape juice - the only flavor that Morgan would drink lately, as evidenced by the blotchy, purple stains adorning a multitude of the boy’s shirts. One eye was kept on her son as she prepared the scrambled eggs, though Alana was careful to keep Morgan’s hands away from the griddle. She listened to him count the bubbles that began to form until they became too numerous and it was time to flip the cakes. When he demanded that it was <em>his </em>turn to pour the batter, Alana relented and retrieved a small measuring cup for Morgan to dip into the larger one.</p><p>“I was thinking about a trip,” her wife murmured as she rifled through the drawer next to the stove where Margot pushed around the congealing eggs.</p><p>She knew what Alana was <em>really </em>saying, and fought to remain stoic and dry-eyed as she tilted her head, considering the mess of yellow before her. “Maybe we should open it first.”</p><p>“I don’t care or want to know what those two have to say.” Her tone was sharp enough that it drew Morgan’s attention, their young son’s gaze heavy upon them as he sensed something was wrong. Alana took a breath, and she spoke much more softly and evenly when she continued, “You know what they do.”       </p><p>Margot tamped down the urge to ask why the <em> Hell </em>it was still sitting on the counter, then. Why it hadn’t been burned as soon as it had slipped into their sanctuary and began leeching poison. She held her tongue when the cornered animal that had resided at the core of her all her life wanted to hiss and claw and tell her wife that of course she knows what they do; they were already <em>doing </em>it. It was like they knew that a simple piece of paper could twist tension and resentment into their marriage with ease, its very existence enough to resurrect the demons of their past that could be battled away from time to time but never really <em>die. </em>                 </p><p>She wouldn’t be surprised if the damnable thing was <em>empty. </em> The envelope itself served the purpose of letting them know that they’d been found, they were seen. Perhaps, even, that they were next. Of all the gruesome actions that had come to light - some, even, that Margot had witnessed with her own two eyes - she had never heard any indication that Hannibal Lecter had harmed a child. But Will Graham had had more than one stolen from him, and <em>that </em>might be enough to spur an entirely different motive altogether.</p><p>Her throat was tight when she swallowed, a muscle near her eye twitching as she forced her lips to curve up. “A trip sounds nice.” </p><p>She watched, then, as her entire world danced around the kitchen, Morgan on Alana’s feet while they shuffled from one side of the counter to the other, finally depositing Morgan at the table and strapping him into his favorite booster seat. </p><p>Margot helped set the table, pulling down two fine, ivory-white plates, black circling the edges in a bold line. So much of her life before had existed in shades of grey, she sometimes found this stark black and white existence to be too much, overwhelming in its seeming finality. </p><p>But she never once regretted staying by Alana’s side, choosing to have a family with her; bringing Morgan into their life and building something for themselves, against all the odds that the universe, that fickle fate, had stacked against them. </p><p>She laughed as she watched Morgan spill more of his food than he actually consumed, smiled while Alana fussed over him, tidying up his sticky cheeks and tiny, syrup-coated fingers.</p><p>While she watched, she thought about lumpy pancakes and juice-stained shirts at the bottom of the hamper, about soft, creamy skin, always cold to the touch, toes tucked between her legs as they lay entwined in bed, about kisses that felt like coming home, like fire sizzling through her veins. </p><p>She thought of her entire world, not a house, not a car, not a heaping pile of money, but two souls, forever hers just as thoroughly as she was forever theirs, maple-sweet kisses and all. She decided then, as she ate another bite of misshapen pancake that, if their safety demanded it, it would be alright to pick up and start all over again somewhere else, somewhere safer. As long as she got to keep this. <em> Just this. </em> Forever.                                                                    </p><p>Her lips curled up easily as she left the table, Alana returning her smile as she wiped down Morgan’s face with a baby wipe. Suddenly, the envelope didn’t seem so menacing anymore. It was just <em>paper</em>. Just ink on a page. </p><p>A perfectly manicured nail slipped beneath the edge, slicing through the wax seal that stamped the envelope shut, an impression of the Lecter crest pressed into the red wax. Inside was a plain white sheet of paper, nondescript and almost <em>benign </em>as she held it in her hand. </p><p>She watched her family as she unfolded it, the weight of the paper feeling far lighter now than it had just an hour ago. Alana’s lips pressed together into a thin line at the sound of rustling paper, eyes pointedly focused on wiping down the table in front of Morgan’s seat.</p><p>Margot’s breath caught instinctively in her chest at the sight of the familiar copperplate, scrawled elegantly upon a single sheet of paper. She never told Alana that Hannibal had kept up sending her Christmas cards while he’d been locked away under her care - had never, in fact, figured out how he bypassed Alana and got them out, for her wife had certainly scrutinized each and every bit of correspondence that Hannibal sent and received. Nevertheless, they had shown up like clockwork on her desk with the rest of the mail sent to the Verger offices.</p><p>It was difficult to admit, even to herself, that she’d always been on fine terms with the murderous cannibal - and, in fact, had benefited from his existence greatly - when she knew the threat that he posed to her family. Even so, there was something almost comforting about the curve of the letters spilled out across the page; their message even moreso.</p><p>
  <em> Dear Alana, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> On behalf of the Graham-Lecters, I regret to inform you that our previously discussed dinner party has been postponed indefinitely. I apologize for any inconvenience and do hope you are able to source your meat elsewhere. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Warmest Regards, </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hannibal Graham-Lecter </em>
</p><p>A postscript had been added to the bottom of the page, the blocky scribble jarring in juxtaposition to Hannibal’s flawless pen.</p><p>
  <b>Sorry. I told him he’s not funny. The puns are literally killing me. Take care.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Will</b>
</p><p>Margot stared at the page, read it again and wondered how trustworthy she should consider a serial-killing cannibal and his broody boyfriend.</p><p>“Well?” Her wife appeared in front of her, eyes locked on the letter in her hand as though she were concerned it may burst into flames at any moment.</p><p>“They say they’re not coming,” Margot summarized. She passed the page over and watched as Alana’s sharp eyes scanned it thrice, her brow furrowing deeper with every pass. “Can we trust that? They don’t exactly seem the sort to bother sending a letter if they’re just going to show up anyway.”</p><p>“Hannibal would be more likely to drop off the map entirely until we find him in our kitchen one day, a decade down the road. Will...I don’t know who Will is anymore. I haven’t for many years.”</p><p>Her wife’s gaze moved to their son, who had begun squirming discontentedly in his booster seat. “We’ll never be completely off their radar. We hold too much potential to be useful to them, to be forgotten entirely.”</p><p>“Can you live like that?”</p><p>Alana turned back to her, lips curled in a soft smile. “I can do anything with you.”</p><p>“Down!” Morgan insisted across the room, and Alana pressed a quick kiss to Margot’s cheek, and the letter back into her hand before moving to release the wiggling boy.</p><p>She glanced down at it once more before balling it up and dropping it in the trash can, certain she would never admit aloud that Will was wrong; it was a <em> little </em>funny. As soon as it left her hands, she felt as though she could breathe a little easier. She didn’t know if she could trust them to keep to their word, but she decided then and there to accept the tempting amnesty offered to them. </p><p>She looked around the kitchen once more, the sun streaming in just a bit brighter, the laughter of her wife and child music to her ears as the mischievous boy alerted Alana to a sticky spot on his nose that she’d missed by leaning forward to smear it across her own.</p><p>Margot Verger had never considered herself a morning person. This morning, however, was the first morning where she thought, just maybe, she could learn to love them after all. </p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading!</p><p>If you enjoy our collaborative works you should follow us on <a href="https://twitter.com/BellaRaiWrites">Twitter</a> and <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bellaraiwrites">Tumblr</a>  for all sorts of extra content and teasers!</p><p>We also have a <a href="https://discord.gg/jhdDeAn">Discord server</a> where you can chat with us, throw us prompts, and post images/art inspired by our work! You may also catch a snippet or two of some WIPs!</p><p>'Til next time! 💚💜 BellaRai</p></blockquote></div></div>
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